


For Our Souls Are the Same

by estelraca



Category: RWBY
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Pining, This Relationship Is Hella Complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: Qrow loved Ozpin for a long, long time; what he didn't know was that Ozpin loved him back.  Now Oscar has inherited memories of a kiss that didn't ever involve him, and it's one of the nicer things he's gotten from the dead man in his head.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Oscar Pine/Ozpin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	For Our Souls Are the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TereziMakara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TereziMakara/gifts).



> I absolutely adore the very, very complicated dynamics between these three, and was really glad to get a chance to play with it for you. I haven't been able to keep up with the latest volume due to life reasons, so the last part is set at a point in the vague future and hopefully nothing contradicts canon. Apologies if it does. I hope that you enjoy!

_For Our Souls Are the Same_

Qrow isn't supposed to fall in love.

He's too dangerous to love. He's too _rough_ to love. He's already got a tribe and a people to protect, even if most of the poopulation wouldn't consider them worthy of that protection.

He's not supposed to want or need anything more.

He's certainly not supposed to fall in love with the head of Beacon Academy, the epitome of the Huntsmen that are just as likely to harass Qrow's people as they are the Grimm.

Oz is a beautiful man. It doesn't get him much past Qrow's guard, not at first. Qrow is used to looking at pretty things that he's not supposed to have—and sure, sometimes he steals them, but more often than not he lets them go.

And people aren't for stealing, not really. Not if you've got a scrap of decency in you, at least, and whatever else he might be Qrow doesn't ever want to be an unrepentant monster.

But Oz is pretty, and Qrow notices—of course he does. What teenager _doesn't_ notice all the pretty people around him?

But Oz is more than just a pretty face. He's even more than a _nice_ face. Qrow has met plenty of nice people before. Nice is superficial. Nice is doing the bare minimum to convince yourself you're not a monster. Nice is following social conventions, and Qrow's got about as much use for that as he does for two left feet.

Oz is _kind_.

Kindness is a much harder thing to manage. Kindness means finding ways to stop the unacceptable, even if it costs you power and time and comfort. Kindness means actually looking beyond yourself and your little circle.

Kindness means trying to save the world even when it seems like an impossible task.

Kindness means trusting someone who intended to take the skills you taught him and murder people with them.

By the time the team fractures around him—by the time Summer is dead, and Raven has fled—Qrow is so deeply in love with Oz that he would fly through a burning sky for him.

The fact that Oz never seems to reciprocate those feelings... well, it's unfair for Qrow to expect someone to both save him and love him at the same time, he supposes.

* * *

Ozpin swore he was never going to try to form a family.

It was one of the decisions that _he_ made, before centuries' worth of memories changed him into... something else.

Something more? Something less?

The being who had been Ozma, once upon a time—who has been so very, very many people through the years—didn't know, so Ozpin decided it wasn't worth obsessing over.

Something _different_ , at least. Something other than the man he would have been if he never woke up with a voice not his own in his head.

A voice that told him he had to save the world, or at least dedicate himself to _trying_. A voice that told him that evil had a name, and a face, and had been capable of love, once, before despair and the cruelty of fate and the gods drove her to become something else.

Ozpin spent an hour throwing up the morning he woke with the memories of Salem murdering Ozma's children— _his_ children—seared deep into his mind. He swore then he was never, ever going to have a family. He was never going to be someone's romantic love, never going to let someone try to tether their life to his when it could all go so terribly, horribly wrong.

The being-who-had-been-Ozma so very, very many lifetimes ago had told him to wait, and consider, and give himself time to assimilate everything.

They had tried not having families, before.

They had tried having families.

They had tried loving. They had tried hating.

They had tried _everything_ , through the years.

By the time there was only one voice in his head—a being who called himself Ozpin, though he was so much more and so much less than Ozpin could have been, in a different world—he has more calmly decided that he won't allow himself to start a family.

There's too much risk involved. Children are too tempting a target for Salem's people—too easy a way to try to drive him off the board and out of the battle for a lifetime of recovery.

He doesn't promise himself he'll never have sex. Sex doesn't have to be romantic, after all. And he doesn't promise himself he'll never love anyone—he knows better than to make that promise. Love is the whole reason he's _doing_ this, after all. If he didn't love people—didn't love their potential, and the bonds they form, and the way they can be so, so _good_ when they're not being so very horrible—he wouldn't be bothering with this fight.

He'd tell the gods to fuck themselves and their test.

He's half tempted to anyway. This was never a fair test. None of this _needed_ to happen.

But for all his power, for all that he can do, he cannot fix Salem. He cannot change the terms of the test. He can just do his best to steer matters towards better outcomes—more hopeful outcomes.

He can teach other people's children to be kind, to be brave, to be the heroes that their world needs.

He can gather some of the good people to him, and tell them enough of the story to get their help but not enough to break their spirits. It's a difficult balance to hit, but he thinks he does well.

He can notice Qrow's advances and force himself not to reciprocate, because Qrow doesn't deserve the type of love that Ozpin could give. Because both of them are in the line of fire too much, and if either of them lives to old age it will be a miracle, and Qrow has a family that needs him even if it's not exactly how any of them hoped matters would turn out.

He can falter in his resolve, when Qrow comes back from one too many dangerous missions, giddy with the joy of still being alive, proud of himself and what he's done.

Ozpin can remember the sullen, damaged boy who first started training as a Huntsman. He is in a position of power over Qrow—not just because of the war, but because of how much faith Qrow is placing in him. Because Qrow is letting Ozpin define Qrow's world—letting Ozpin define _Qrow_ , as someone worthy of respect and love. It's not the type of relationship that Qrow needs. It goes against Ozpin's promises to himself.

He still lets Qrow kiss him, just once. Enjoys the feel of Qrow's battle-rough fingers against his face, and the rasp of Qrow's stubble against his chin.

There's never an opportunity for more. The plans Salem had been laying come to fruition, and Ozpin dies in fire and ash, his greatest regret and relief both that someone else is going to inherit the mantle he wasn't strong enough to bear.

* * *

Oscar wakes with a start, his heart pounding, his skin tingling with emotions it takes him far too long to name.

It shouldn't be possible for fear and lust to engender so many of the same sensations, but he figures adrenaline is adrenaline, and it's always disconcerting waking from one of Ozpin's dreams.

_I'm sorry._ The words are a whisper from his mental passenger.

_It's not your fault._ Oscar sends the words automatically. They're still... getting a new feel for each other, Ozpin and him. They're still figuring out how they're going to fit together, and what kind of person Oscar is going to be when the inevitable happens.

It's better to be on speaking terms than not. The time Oscar went with Ozpin locked deep in his subconscious, the dead man trying his best to be as unobtrusive and unnoticeable as possible... Oscar understands why Ozpin did it. He didn't, at first. He didn't understand _so much_ about what was happening. But now...

Perhaps it means they're getting closer to merging. Perhaps it means that soon there won't be an Oscar.

Or maybe it just means that having information is better than not having information, even if that information is horrific.

_Usually that,_ Ozpin's voice whispers to him, full of too long a life lived with too much grief and misery. _Not always, but it's usually better to have information. I'm sorry I kept so many secrets._

_I'm sorry you felt you had to._ Oscar shoves his hands through his hair. _That dream—that kiss—_

The ageless, inhuman grief gives way to a flush of _very_ human embarrassment across Oscar's cheeks. Ozpin's embarrassment, not Oscar's, and it's strange to feel his body reacting to something that is-and-isn't him.

Not as strange as when Ozpin fronts to fight, but close.

_That kiss..._ Ozpin's voice is slow and cautious. _I shouldn't have. I promised that I wouldn't. But Qrow can be... a very forceful personality._

Oscar nods, untangling himself from the blanket and moving around the campfire to Qrow's side. There was a battle yesterday—a fight that Qrow did most of the heavy lifting during. The bandages that Oscar helped tie around Qrow's midsection don't show any blood seepage, though, and Qrow's breathing is slow and easy with sleep.

Oscar studies Qrow's sleeping expression. _I don't even know if I_ like _him. He's always trying to protect me, and I..._

_He is fiercely loyal. Something I am grateful has continued, even after my betrayal._ This grief of Ozpin's, too, is different than the old griefs—the griefs that Oscar still shies away from, the dead children and dead lovers and broken hopes that litter Ozma's centuries in the world. This is something smaller and deeply, dearly personal to Ozpin. _I should have trusted him with the truth. I knew how much it mattered to him that I trusted him. I should have known how much a perceived lack of trust would cut._

_Perceived._ Oscar doesn't mean to send the word to Ozpin, but it happens anyway as his mind snags on that thought. _Perceived_ , because just as Oscar knows his own feelings, he knows Ozpin's at that moment, and he knows Ozpin trusted Qrow more than anyone else.

_But not enough._ Ozpin sighs. _I wish I knew what to tell you, Oscar. I wish I had a formula for managing what we are without breaking ourselves or those around us. I wish I had a way forward that wasn't so hard._

_I know._ Rubbing a hand across his face, Oscar studies Qrow again, his lips tingling with memories of a kiss he's never had. _But I wouldn't want your blueprint for my life, anyway. I have to figure out what I want to do myself._

Ozpin is silent, and Oscar feels only the faintest overflow of conflicting emotions from the dead man—agreement, that Oscar must find his own path; disagreement, a desire to save Oscar from pain.

Oscar finds his right hand reaching out, tentatively touching Qrow's black hair. When Qrow had first found him... there had been such joy in the man's expression. Joy because he had found _Ozpin_ , and Oscar had been only a footnote, an appendix that Qrow would consult if absolutely necessary.

It hadn't lasted. Qrow _likes_ kids, Oscar thinks. Not in a creepy way, but in the way good teachers do—respecting what they can become, loving the fierce people that they currently are. Qrow taught his nieces, and he was happy enough to teach Oscar, even if there was a bit of impatience, an expectation that Oscar would have _more_ from Ozpin than what he had at any point in time.

Then there was the time _without_ Ozpin, with Qrow _furious_ with Ozpin... but not furious with Oscar. Treating Oscar like a dead man walking, at first, but then with pity, and eventually with a strange sort of compassion and affection—the way he treats the other young Huntsmen and Huntresses.

The way he treats the people who _don't_ contain the soul of a man Qrow loved and kissed even though he shouldn't have.

_This is such a complicated mess._

“You all right, kid?”

Qrow's words startle Oscar into jumping away, wrenching his hand back as though Qrow's hair were burning brands.

It at least saves him from having to figure out who was thinking about the situation being complicated.

Running his tongue over his lips, Oscar nods. “I'm fine. Just... making sure you're fine.”

Qrow sits up, moving slowly but without any overt signs of pain. “I think so, yeah. No poison this time. Just a little bit of blood loss. It'll finish healing up as soon as my aura's replenished. Sorry to worry you.”

“No worries. Just...” Oscar tries to think of something to say—something that won't cause him to combust from embarrassment—and fails.

Qrow continues to look at him, expression growing more and more concerned. “If there's something you need to talk about—”

“I dreamt about kissing you.” The words burst out of Oscar's lips, and he refuses to let his eyes drop away from Qrow's. “Or—I dreamt—remembered—when you kissed Ozpin.”

Qrow sits frozen, still only half sitting up, both his elbows planted on the ground. When he finally makes a sound, it's just a soft, uncertain, “Oh.”

“And it...” Oscar swallows. “It was a nice dream.”

Qrow's expression goes from carefully neutral to panicked in the space of a few heartbeats. “Kid, you can't—”

“He enjoyed it. Ozpin.” Oscar forces himself to keep watching Qrow, to ignore the flailing, panicked voice of the dead man telling him that this isn't what should be done. Secrets have hurt all of them. He's going to learn from that lesson. “He was determined he wasn't going to take a lover, wasn't going to have someone Salem could use against him, someone who would have to bury him because of this stupid war if he didn't have to bury them first. But he knew you loved him. And he enjoyed the kiss.”

Qrow closes his eyes, but not before Oscar sees the sheen of tears that have risen up to reflect the firelight.

Oscar still doesn't know who _he_ wants to kiss. He's thought about it with a lot of people on their journey—about kissing Ruby. About kissing Nora. About kissing Jaune. About kissing Ren. They've just been idle thoughts, though, the type of wondering that doesn't lead him to actually want to _do_ anything. Because he's too young? Because he hasn't found the right person?

Because he's been dealing with a dead man who encompasses millenia of dead men living inside his head?

Ozpin thinks Qrow is beautiful, his face masked by shadow, illuminated by firelight.

Oscar leans forward and presses his lips to Qrow's forehead.

Qrow opens his eyes, startling away. “Kid, you can't—”

“Ozpin loved you.” Oscar can feel that certainty deep at his core, and speaking the words causes Ozpin to go silent at the truth of them. “He trusted you. _I_ trust you. I don't know if I'll love you, not yet, but I remember _him_ loving you.”

“You're still really young, Oscar.” Qrow sits up, moving to a cross-legged position, studying Oscar with some impossible combination of pity and grief and understanding. “You're going to find someone your own age—”

“Unless I don't.” Oscar shoves a hand up through his own hair. “Unless I die trying to do this impossible thing we're trying to do. We could _both_ die. We both know it.”

Qrow's jaw hardens, determination flaring in his eyes, but he doesn't contradict Oscar. They both know it's true.

“I wouldn't want you to kiss me right now. Not while there's a war on. Not while I'm still trying to figure out who I am, and who I'll be when... when everything's done.” When there's no longer a dead man in his head. When instead of Ozpin and Oscar, there is just Oscar, remembering a past that has broken and healed and broken Ozma's soul over too many generations to count. “But Ozpin loved you, and I want you to know that.”

Qrow reaches out, taking Oscar's hand in his and squeezing tight. “Okay. Thank you, Oscar. It's... it's good to know that, even if it's too late.”

“It's not.” The words are Ozpin's, but it's Oscar who says them, Oscar's mouth that twists into something like Ozpin's smile. He can see the way the similarities strike right through Qrow's heart, but he can't stop the truth. “That's one of the few good things about being what we are. It's really not too late to make amends.”

Qrow nods, and his voice is thick when he finally forces himself to make word. “Amends made, then. Now back to sleep, kid. We've got a lot more traveling to do, and it'll be easier if we aren't both exhausted.”

Oscar doesn't protest, retreating back to his own bedroll and settling down.

If they all survive this—if he grows into the person who can encompass Oscar and Ozpin and all the other people they have been...

Not all the lives that have come before were unpleasant.

Not every love has ended in heartbreak and death.

And if they can find a way to beat Salem—to stop her, to save her, whatever they can manage...

It's good to dream of things other than death and destruction, and Oscar settles back into the images with a sigh of relief, determined to wrest the best possible outcome for all of them out of the horrors that will come.


End file.
